


His shoulder blots out the stars but the minutes don't stop

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-29
Updated: 2010-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-09 19:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I want to tell you this story without having to confess anything.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	His shoulder blots out the stars but the minutes don't stop

**Author's Note:**

> Title and verse taken from "The Torn-Up Road" by Richard Siken.

_I want to tell you this story without having to confess anything,  
      without having to say that I ran out into the street to prove something,  
                                                                       that he didn't love me,  
that I wanted to be possessed, thrown over, that I wanted to have the wounds  
nailed shut._

_I want to tell you this story without having to be in it:_

 

He saw her once, years later, as he was trying to get onto an elevator and she was coming out. The flash of her blonde hair and the way she bent her neck made him pause, and he said, "Hey, Anna," without thinking about it. She stopped to look at him, and her eyes were the exact same color as Nathan's were, if framed by light brown rather than dark lashes; a curl of familiarity laced through his belly, startling and undefinable.

"Hello Peter. How are you? It's been a while."

"I'm fine. And you? How are -" But then he tried to recall where exactly it was he knew her from, and came up blank. All he had was a sharp sense of recognition, a name, and her hands, maybe. "I think I must have mistaken you for someone else. Sorry." He ducked into the closing elevator and made it just in time to catch a glimpse of her face turning confused and dark with concern. His fucking family, and all the empty spaces in his head. Sometimes, he was amazed he didn't walk around with a permanent sense of deja vu and a feeling that something was not quite right.

At home, he called his mother and yelled at her for a while, for once again, messing with his memories. "Anna, Ma," he repeated finally, when he'd run out of steam. "Do you know who that is?"

"You need to be more specific, dear," Ma said. "I'm not responsible for all your lost memories. I'm sorry."

It struck him then, that perhaps it wasn't René after all, perhaps it had been Dad. Who for some reason wanted him to forget this woman. It shouldn't have mattered, shouldn't have surprised him. None of it mattered anymore. Half their family was dead, and death always took precedence over everything else. It was just one woman, it was probably not very important at all. Just inconvenient. Like a girl who accidentally died in their pool while on a date with his brother.

"I just want the truth, Ma. Could you give that to me, please? I'm tired of all the lies."

"I don't know what it is that you want me to say. You're being paranoid. Are you allright?"

Peter sat down abruptly and put his hand to his forehead, felt the headache start to build. "Yeah, I'm sorry. I just - it's been a long year. I didn't mean to snap at you."

Ma only said, "I forgive you," and that was the end of that. It wasn't as if she had much of a choice. There were only the two of them left.

*

The next morning, he woke up remembering hands, remembering her. It was fine until he was preparing lunch, and then it hit him, and he leaned against the kitchen counter, fingers clenched into fists, fighting to breathe, until his pasta boiled over, the water hissing as it splashed onto the stove.

Funny, all the things one could choose to forget.

*

Anna had pretty hands. That's mostly all that he recalled from their first session. She had pretty hands and she wanted to know how he was and when he told her he was perfectly fine she said, "So tell me, why are you here, Peter."

Saying that his brother and mother had browbeat him into it would have sounded pathetic, so he just mumbled something about how his last girlfriend had broke up with him and the bad dreams that he'd been having; there was no point in lying, but he genuinely didn't know what she wanted from him, which was confusing and so he just kept talking, and she asked a few questions, but not many, and finally the hour was up, and he said, "That's it, I can go now?"

"This isn't mandatory, you know. You were always free to go. Would you like to make another appointment?"

"No," he said. "Yeah, maybe. Yeah."

*

It was Nathan's idea. It was always Nathan's idea. The latest suggestion in the long line of suggestions that Nathan had put forward so as to help his messed up younger brother. _You need to straighten yourself out_, was Nathan's favorite catchphrase at the time. Hurled at him with various levels of tolerance or anger, depending on just exactly how Peter had managed to fuck things up this time, and followed by his age. _You're twenty-three, Peter_. As if to point out that Nathan had been far more accomplished even at that age than Peter. He was actually surprised Nathan hadn't suggested it sooner. But then he was a Petrelli, and the Petrellis were old fashioned when it came to some things. Nathan must have been at the end of his rope that day.

"See," he said. "Therapy's not something to be ashamed of. It's probably worse if you're not seeing one. Listen, you go and you talk to her, she comes highly recommended, one of Heidi's friend's daughter or son is seeing her. Maybe she can help you with some of your problems." Not so subtly saying: so you don't continue to embarrass me and this family. "Ma's worried about you as well, Pete," he said, stressing the word _Ma._ Peter sighed, and palmed the card.

It took him two days before he picked up the phone to make the appointment, even though he knew it wasn't really a request. His mother would call him next, if Nathan's insistence hadn't been enough. If it was one or the other, most of the time Peter found it possible to say no. Both of them, he usually didn't even bother.

*

She had pretty hands, and he would stare at them the entire time he was there, the entire time he would talk about his lack of career prospects, his girl problems, his family. How him refusing to go to law school had disappointed everyone so acutely. She always paid special attention when he talked about his family. Nathan, sometimes. Arthur, specifically. "Do you want to tell me more about your relationship with your father," she said, the first time he talked about it, the first time he'd mentioned it, in passing. "I want to help you, you need to tell me the truth."

"The whole truth and nothing but?" He tried, but the smile didn't manage to stick to his face. So he told. It was easier than he thought it would be. She didn't react with disgust, or horror, or even pity. Of course, that was her job, he wouldn't have expected otherwise, but for some reason he'd thought the world would end. Or for Arthur to come storming in, grab him by the collar and drag him out, even though Arthur was never violent, not in that way. "Listen," he said, "I need you to be clear on this. Just so we're clear. He never forced me. It was my decision. It was always my decision."

"Okay," was all she said in response.

*

There had been a party, and a fight, and Peter had kept pounding his fists into the guy's stupid face until the cops pulled him off and dragged him away. Nathan bailed him out; three a.m. and Peter couldn't think of anyone else to call. "Oh, Pete," was all he said, and Peter belatedly tried to straighten his clothes and smooth down his hair.

On the drive home, Peter curled up against the door as far away from Nathan as he could get, hugged himself because his stomach hurt. Nathan was silent and Peter had started to breathe again, hoping that maybe all Nathan would do would be to drop him off and chalk it up to almost-teenaged rebellion. But it turned out he was just biding his time, because at some point he snapped, "What the hell do you think you're doing? Do you know how much embarrassment you could have caused this family? Do you even care? What the hell is wrong with you, man. You're not in college anymore. It's about time you grew the fuck up."

"Nathan," Peter said. "If you don't pull over now I'm going to throw up inside your car."

Nathan actually got out of the car to watch him hurl all over the side of the road, hands in his pockets and his face a mask of worried annoyance. His fucked up, useless brother. The shame was almost unbearable. When he could finally stand, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, "I'm sorry, okay. I'm sorry."

"I know you are," Nathan said. He put his hand on the side of Peter's face, and Peter always felt warm when he did that, loved, but now he just felt cold. "You're shivering, Pete," Nathan said, removing his jacket and wrapping it around Peter's shoulders. Peter slipped his arms inside the sleeves and Nathan laughed slightly when he lifted them to show how much over the edge of his fingers they trailed. "We really need to put some weight on you."

"Alcohol might help."

"No, that's just a lie they tell you. So the cops told me the other kid was pretty beat up. Want to tell me what happened?"

"He called you a Republican. I couldn't let that stand."

Nathan laughed, and didn't believe him, but didn't press the matter further. "Come on," he said, drawing Peter forward and pushing him back in the direction of the car. "I better get you home before Heidi starts asking questions."

"You didn't tell her, did you?"

"No, of course not," Nathan replied brusquely. "I won't tell Mom and Dad either, if you promise not to do it again." Nathan always kept his secrets, and that was one of the reasons why Peter loved him. When they reached his apartment, Nathan pulled the car over and leaned across the seat, kissed Peter on softly on the forehead. Peter clutched at his shirt and buried his face in the warm curve of Nathan's throat. "I love you Pete, you know that, right." Peter sniffled and nodded his head. "But you really need to pull your shit together."

Peter shoved him back, hard. "You're a sanctimonious ass," he snarled, and scrambled out of the car, slamming the door on Nathan's surprised face.

Of course, after that was when Nathan started hounding him to seek help. Even though by then Peter had already stopped drinking, stopped the incessant partying. Started vaguely formulating plans for nursing school. Slowly putting his life together, or attempting to. None of it was enough for Nathan though. Which led him back to Anna, and her soft skin and her brown eyes and -

"It's transference," she told him, when he mentioned it to her. "It will pass."

"And what do you know about how I feel?"

All she said was, "I'm pretty sure none of this is about me."

And sometimes, he didn't like Anna all that much.

*

All those years spent dreaming about Nathan - deep known he knew he idolized him, that Nathan was flawed, or worse: was exactly like his father, but he couldn't help the way he felt. Nathan came home and it was as if the entire Petrelli household held its breath, from his parents right down to the staff, some of whom adored Peter, but Nathan, Nathan they respected.

At some point after he turned fourteen he'd stopped hovering just out of sight but within hearing distance, just waiting for the door to open so he could run into Nathan's arms. Such displays of affection were unseemly, Dad always said. Besides, a part of him was afraid that Nathan could see, written on his face, all the things that Peter had thought about him while he was gone. Sticky fingers and a clenched jaw and always the same name escaping from his lips. So he hid in his bedroom, barricaded himself behind books and music blasting high. Nathan always came up to see him though.

Nathan knocked on the door politely, and even through the music Peter knew he was there. He'd never acknowledge it, waited instead for Nathan to tire of waiting and peek his head in, smile at Peter before stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. Nathan always turned the music off, and in the sudden silence Peter could almost hear his heart start to race faster, his breath start to quicken. It always made him blush, so he would duck his head until Nathan sat heavily down next to him and said, in that strong, dark voice of his, "Hey, Pete."

Peter's fantasies around Nathan back then often included elaborate scenarios where he confessed his love and Nathan reciprocated, and then they'd make out, or fuck, and afterwards decide that since society wouldn't understand their love, they'd run away together to someplace far away and change their names so no-one knew that they were brothers. So they could live in peace.

He concocted schemes, insisted that Nathan follow him places. To the Guggenheim (their eyes would meet across an exhibition and they'd both just know) or Central Park (a place for families, and lovers). Nathan was always surprisingly willing to go along with him, and Peter always took it as a sign of encouragement. Nathan seemed oblivious though, to the more overt signs that Peter was putting out, choosing instead to touch him as if they were nothing more than brothers who enjoyed each other's company.

"Listen," he told Anna once. "I've been in love with my brother since I was fourteen. That's never going to change. I don't want it to."

"But you already said he doesn't love you back, not in that way."

"So what? Love doesn't have to go both ways. I like being in love with him."

"But you realize that it's futile."

"Yeah, well. Isn't unrequited love the best love of them all?"

"Do you think your father loves you?"

"What?"

"You often tell me about how much he - the both of you, love Nathan. But you never talk about how he feels about you."

"No, of course my father doesn't love me," Peter replied sharply, and for someone so astute so much of the time, sometimes she was just plain oblivious. "What kind of a stupid question is that?" His father only had room in his heart for one child, and Nathan had come first. That was what made what transpired between them so special. So different.

*

He told her, "You're not the first therapist I've seen," because it had just struck him.

"Tell me about the others, then?"

"Just the one. And I only met with him the one time. My father saw therapy as a sign of weakness. He threw a fit when he found out, said my mother was coddling me and that I needed to man up and stop letting my emotions dictate my behavior." The pale, middle-aged man who dressed like a history professor and smelt faintly of mothballs. His office wasn't nearly as nice as this one was either, and the only thing Peter got out of it was a lollipop, even though he was far too old for that, he felt.

"I see. And why did your mother feel that the therapy was necessary?"

"I'd been having nightmares. Night terrors, I guess they call it. I was maybe twelve when they started."

"And do you still have them?"

"No. I - maybe."

He was dreaming the future. That's what he realized at some point. Not then, but afterwards. Everything made far more sense afterwards, when all the lies and secrets had been uncovered. And yet still, most of the time he felt as if they were only scratching the surface of the truth, that if he'd thought about it hard enough there'd be a whole host of other things for him to have a lifetime of nightmares over. A lifetime of therapy to get over. But then again, considering how fucked up things already were, probably there were some things he would rather not remember.

*

She liked to talk about Nathan. For some reason she liked to talk about Nathan. He asked her once, "Why do you keep bringing up my brother."

She said, "Do I? Perhaps it's because you mention him so often."

He'd bristled then, "I do not." But perhaps he did. Nathan was interesting. Nathan had an important life and ambition and a future that was bringing him places. For as far back as he could remember, Nathan Petrelli was the brother that mattered. The one that his parents discussed in earnest while Peter colored books by the floor near the fireplace, quiet and uninterrupted. They talked about his future, and how he'd do the family name proud.

No-one ever mentioned the family name around Peter. Mostly Arthur was content to behave as if he only had the one son, and the other one was an anomaly. A mistake, and Peter had snapped as much to Angela once, when he was sixteen and going through his rebellious phase. She'd slapped him then, for daring to suggest that he was the child that they hadn't planned for, or even wanted to begin with. But then she never resolutely denied it, either. There were times, maybe, when Arthur paid attention to him, but that was mostly to berate him for his unbecoming behavior. "You need to learn the meaning of respect." Maybe that was what it was all about then. Him learning respect.

"How much time did you spend with your brother growing up?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well you told me he went to military school, then Annapolis. He's twelve years older than you, isn't he?"

"He'd come home once in a while, long weekends, Christmas. Some summers," Peter said evasively. But Nathan's presence always loomed large in the household, even though he was rarely there. He didn't want to talk about Nathan anymore. But then he always wanted to talk about Nathan. About wanting to save him from himself. From Arthur. About how he felt the connection to him as an almost physical pull, and if only Nathan would pay attention instead of allowing Dad to dictate his choices, he'd be far better off.

"Did you ever feel your parents pushed you aside in favor of him?" she asked, apropos of nothing.

"What, no. Of course not. He worked hard for all his success. Nathan just took up a lot of space, that's all. "

"And what about you?"

He'd stared at her then, confused. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

She didn't reply, just quirked her lip until he had to look away. "He's my brother, and I love him," he said eventually.

"So you've said."

*

The truth was: Arthur had asked. Politely, as if the answer would bear no consequence to him. Peter asked, "Why," first and foremost, and he had shrugged.

"It's a yes or no answer, son. Don't put yourself out over it. If you're not interested."

They were in Arthur's garden, everyone's actually except that it was always Arthur's, and those rose bushes that he prized so much were blooming, the scent heady and distinctive. Out here in the open, he always felt intimidated and small, even though he was old enough that he shouldn't give a fuck. "I thought, uh - I thought we were going to talk about college."

"What's there to talk about? You'll go to NYU, you'll study pre-law." Arthur had picked up his shears, effectively dismissing him, leaving Peter with his throat dry and his hands clammy.

"I don't -" Peter said, but he couldn't make the words come out. None that made sense in any way.

*

He always remembered emotions, like: how good the attention felt. How special, how private. Dad's hand in his hair, him on his knees. His own beauty he'd always been slightly ashamed of - he was too pretty, too soft and too pale. Too thin. Girls adored him, but he was always acutely aware that they weren't drawn to him the same way they were drawn to Nathan. Arthur's second son was delicate. He was _sensitive._ Both words that Arthur loathed. Arthur's eyes dark with lust though, that was precisely because of that. Instinctively, he'd known that.

They did it everywhere. At home, in the backseat of their father's limo. After he moved out for college, he'd come home for social functions, find himself drifting away somehow, upstairs in his old room and he'd wait until his father would come for him. He always smelt faintly of Mom's perfume, which made it hard for Peter to hug her for a while, it was always so disorienting, but eventually he got over that. Sometimes he suspected she knew, her gaze on him was sharp and discerning, but a lot of what his mother knew or realized she was made to forget as well, and he chose not to believe she was complicit in this.

Chose not to believe that she wouldn't have kicked up a fuss if she had found out that her husband was having an affair with her younger son. In a way, it was a slap in the face to her - he was always the child that everyone said most resembled his mother. A younger model, even if he was male. Arthur liked to say, "I'm not a faggot, son. You might be one, in fact I'm sure you are, but me. No." That was something Peter always found hilarious, considering that more often than not just five minutes ago he was on his hands and knees and Arthur was draped heavily over him like a rug, but he wasn't wrong. Arthur was no fag.

"And you?" Anna asked, and Peter was startled to respond.

"Sure, why the hell not."

"But you date girls as well, don't you?" He'd told her about his girlfriends at some point. How he couldn't seem to make any of his relationships last. "They always say that they don't feel that I'm emotionally attached to them, even though that's not true." There was this girl. He liked talking about the girl he was in love with at the time, a barista at his favorite coffeeshop, and her beauty and grace, and how worried he was that if he ever dared approach her she'd reject him or worse, she wouldn't, and he'd fuck it up somehow, like he always did.

"Yeah, I date girls," he replied carefully. "I like women. But I don't think that's what my father meant."

"Listen," he told her. "It's me that's fucked up, you understand? I'm in love with my brother. That's fucked up."

"And your relationship with your father, you don't think that was fucked up as well?"

"No, of course it is. But I was never in love with him. Not in that way."

"Okay."

*

He liked girls and he fell in love easily, but none of the relationships ever lasted. Usually they broke up with him, claimed he was clingy and overly dependent. One of his exes said, "It's like you need me, but then when I try to get close you push me away." He apologized, but he never understood how to give her what she wanted, and maybe that was the problem.

The first guy he fucked he met in his second year of college at a some party or another. Two things:

1) Peter hadn't had more than a beer all night.  
2) He wasn't the least bit interested in anything more than a random hook-up.

Except the next morning when he woke up the guy was still there, flipping through his CD collection. Peter only vaguely remembered propositioning him, everything else was a blank. Square-jawed, dark-haired. Fuck.

"My head," Peter said. "Uh -"

"Marcus. Marcus Oliver."

"You have two first names, Marcus."

"That I do." Marcus was a psych major, he found that out later, which apparently meant that he would gaze at Peter with an absolutely serious expression on his face and say, "About last night."

"What about last night?"

"It's just that uh, at some point you seemed really out of it."

"Yeah, I guess I was kind of wasted, sorry. If I passed out in the middle or anything -"

"No, no. That's not it." He rubbed the back of his neck tiredly and said, "Look, I really like you -"

Great. All the boys he could have dragged back to his dorm room and he managed to get the one that didn't want out the door as soon as the sun came up. Peter said, as politely as he could, "Thanks, but I'm not really -"

"No, that's not what I meant. I just meant I think you're pretty cool, but that you should probably get some help maybe."

"Was I that bad?"

"No, it's just that," he hesitated. "Most guys actually seem to enjoy doing it, you know?"

Peter put his hand to his forehead. It felt sticky, almost tacky with sweat. He was probably coming down with something. "Look, I don't mean to be rude, but would you please just fuck off."

"Yeah, okay," Marcus Oliver said, and the next time Peter saw him he spun around and walked in the other direction, fast.

He pretty much stayed away from psych majors after that.

*

She asked him, what if Nathan had found out. Peter felt dizzy, and faint, just at the very thought. "Never," he said. "Never. He loves Dad, okay. It would destroy him." He couldn't imagine the look on Nathan's face, the sense of betrayal. He'd never talk to Peter again.

"Do you think there's a possibility that Nathan would be upset with your father rather than you?"

"Well yeah, maybe." He paused. "The scandal if it ever got out. Dad should have known better."

*

Nathan's wedding was perfect. Peter even managed write a speech for the occasion, and his toast was lucid, heart-felt and even managed to garner a laugh or two. He liked Heidi, truly, so it wasn't all a lie. He wanted Nathan to be happy, above all things. Nathan deserved it. After the toast, Nathan got up and hugged him tight, whispered, "I love you."

Peter clutched him back, too long, said through tears, "I love you too."

He'd tried his best to avoid everyone at the reception, until the happy couple had driven away in a white limo trailing ribbons. Then he made his escape, called for a cab to bring him back to the off-campus apartment he was living it at the time, grateful that his roommates were both out of town. He was well on the way to falling asleep when the doorbell rang. It was a surprise, usually Arthur just waited until Angela was out of town and Peter dropped by. But it was late, and Peter didn't question it, just stripped as Arthur watched expectantly. Arthur put his hand on Peter's chin, tilted it up, and said, "Jealously doesn't suit you, son. It's unseemly."

Peter flinched away, responded defiantly, "Are you here to fuck me or talk about my feelings."

Arthur's hand dropped. "Fine. Then get on your knees."

*

Arthur expressed displeasure sometimes, over Peter's devotion to Nathan. He liked to say, the same thing Angela said, "Your brother doesn't care about you the way you care about him. Your hero-worship, it's humiliating, Peter." But Peter didn't care. Or if he did, he couldn't make himself stop. Nathan was everything to him. It was why, when the end came, he chose Nathan over Arthur. When Nathan got it in his head that he wanted to bring down Linderman, and as a consequence bring down Arthur as well, Peter went along.

"No, you see. You don't get it. I didn't stop fucking my father. He stopped fucking me."

"And how did that make you feel?"

Angry, mostly. Because after everything, Arthur had just lost interest. He'd reacted, predictably enough, by disowning him. He already had no intention of going to law school, but it gave him satisfaction nonetheless when he threw it in Arthur's face. Even though Arthur had already won. The last time, Arthur had kissed him. Soft and firm, exploring his mouth, and Peter had moaned into it, almost against himself. When Arthur pulled away he seemed satisfied, and before he walked off he patted him on the head as if he were a beloved pet.

He remembered asking why. Going, his voice cracking slightly, "Did I do something wrong?"

Dad's voice was surprisingly kind when he said, "Don't be ridiculous, son. All things must come to an end." Peter didn't know what he fuck he meant, but most likely his father just wanted him to stop staring at him as if he was going to cry.

He was naked that night, he remembered that as well, clothes clutched to him protectively as Arthur stood, hands casually tucked in his pockets and looking all the world as if they hadn't just fucked. But that was nothing new. Afterwards, when Peter was sweaty and exhausted and ready to fall asleep, Arthur always stood by him, fully clothed, as if nothing of what had just happened affected him one bit. Peter could be in his lap, riding him, and Arthur would have no reaction except a slight intake of breath, a quickening of his pulse. Most of the time, the only evidence that he left behind was his come, cooling as it slicked its way down between Peter's legs.

*

"Why do you want to be a nurse, Peter?"

"I don't - I guess I want to help people. I think it's important to put others first. My family, they're not big on that - my mom likes to joke that I'm adopted. Except I look too much like her to not be a Petrelli."

"Did you ever consider perhaps putting yourself first once in a while?"

"Yeah, maybe. I don't know."

*

"If I'd known I'd be free of your incessant demands on my time, Peter," Arthur said, at a party he'd been forced to come to against his will, because Nathan insisted that he be there, "I would have wanted you to disown me years ago." He tried thinking of a pithy comeback to that, but he couldn't, and in the end he just grabbed a glass of champagne and walked away.

He hit on Nathan that night, the one and only time he did. Too drunk to give a fuck, he was coming out of an upstairs bathroom just as Nathan was going in. "Hey, Pete," Nathan said, his hands as usual on Peter's arms.

"Hey," Peter said, blinking blearily at Nathan, wondering why even here, in the dim upstairs light, his brother was so bright. So solid and self-assured and utterly perfect.

"Someone's had a little too much to drink, I see," Nathan said, but he sounded amused and not judgmental. He was in a good mood that night, flush on ambition and drive. He was going to take on the whole world, Nathan Petrelli was. Peter would just have to learn how to keep out of the way. Except for now, when Nathan's attention was focused on him, and his smile was soft and inviting.

In the end, the kiss was several levels of disaster. Sloppy, for one thing. Desperate, for another. As drunk as he was, he was certain Nathan could feel his desperation, his need. He pushed himself against Nathan, and it took him a while to realize Nathan wasn't responding. But he wasn't pushing him away either, and Peter took it as a good sign, wrapped his arms around Nathan and pulled him even closer, and that was when Nathan stiffened. Peter moaned when he was suddenly at arms length, and Nathan was holding him there. But then it hit him: Nathan never kissed him back, not for a single second.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Oh god I'm so drunk."

"I know, Pete. Listen, it's okay. Why don't you lie down for while okay, I'll make excuses. Come on, I'll help you to your room." But he was careful to keep his touch light and professional, and he pulled away when Peter grabbed his hand as he was getting into the bed. "Just sleep it off."

They pretended, afterwards, that nothing had ever happened. Peter was relieved that Nathan didn't seem to look at him differently, or talk to him any differently. He still touched Peter to show his affection, and Peter still tried to behave as if he didn't treasure any scrap of attention that Nathan tossed his way.

*

"Do you think your father had a sexual relationship with your brother as well?"

"What? No, of course not."

"You sound convinced."

He wasn't sure what to say to that. Except that Nathan was - Nathan. He was invincible and untouchable. Arthur wouldn't have dared. "Nathan was my father's favorite son," he said eventually. "He wouldn't have done this to him."

"So you do believe then, that your father had sex with you deliberately to hurt you."

"I don't know. I think maybe he did it because he was bored."

*

Peter stopped seeing her after that. He was never sure why - her assistant called him once, to reschedule the appointment he'd missed, and he said, "Yeah no, I don't think I'll be back."

She contacted him soon after, and said, in her careful manner, "Peter, would you like to come back and talk to me sometime."

"No," he said shortly, and hung up.

*

It struck him once, that his father could have made him forget if he'd wanted to, and he wondered for a while why he hadn't. But then he realized: he probably just didn't think Peter was important enough to make the effort.

*

If she'd asked him then, if he could go back in time and change what had happened, would he - and even if he'd known it wasn't just a hypothetical, that at some point he'd possess that power before having it ripped away from him, he would probably have still said no.

"It was good," he told her, and back then he would have meant it. "I enjoyed it. There's nothing I would have changed."

She would have found it strange that in his reality right now, time travel wasn't just theoretical. _I've seen the future, Anna. It always goes to shit._ Apocalypses and police states and his father, returning from his grave. That, and his brother dying. That always took precedence over everything else. Everything that he'd been through, and in the end: his brother died.

And it was funny how some things you could choose to forget, and how some things, no matter how hard you tried to, you couldn't.


End file.
